


In Good Hands

by KyeShgall



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Humor, Massage, Romance, Spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-19
Updated: 2011-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-19 14:12:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyeShgall/pseuds/KyeShgall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke had been acting less like his favorite companionable smartass and a whole lot more like a blushing Chantry sister. It was unusual and disconcerting and yes, okay, insanely arousing, but since he had absolutely no idea why she was acting so strangely, it was probably better to rein in the arousal just a bit, at least until he had coaxed a few answers out of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Shoulders

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or any of its characters. That would be Bioware. And I make no profits herein, obviously.

He cared about her left shoulder. That was all. The state of her shoulder as of tomorrow morning bright and early was directly related to his odds of surviving whatever the recesses of that blighted Bone Pit held in store for them this time. Spiders, dragons, rodents of unusual size, no matter, he would shoot whatever lunged from the shadows. And though he or any of his companions might emerge from the fray with a crippling injury, it was really best if they didn’t start out with one.

There was no question that Hawke needed both arms at full mobility. She would have to swing a heavy blade at seemingly impossible speed, toss firebombs with expert precision, and quite possibly drag a knocked-out dwarf several meters to safety without allowing any harm to come to him.

So yes, it bothered him that Hawke was babying her damn shoulder and pretending otherwise. It bothered him enough that before he left to take a piss, he made a point to flag down Norah and give her a simple set of instructions. And Maker help that poor girl if she couldn’t follow them. Cleaving to instructions was not her forte, but bumping into people in a headlong, jarring sort of way was among her keenest talents.

In retrospect, he’d have to say that Norah’s performance was entirely acceptable. Though she aimed for the completely wrong left shoulder, she at least slammed into it hard enough that Hawke winced in pain and clutched at her proper left shoulder with several distinct grimaces and at least one pathetic chirp.

“Not a good sound, Hawke,” he said.

Hawke scowled at him. “It’s nothing,” she said.

“According to Blondie?”

“According to Hawke,” she said. “Anders is… a bit touchy at the moment. I figured I’d go visit Bethany first thing tomorrow.”

“At the Circle?” he said. “No time for that. We’re leaving at dawn. Do I have to drag your sorry ass to Darktown?”

“No! It’s not that bad,” she said. “Trust me when I say that I’m fine.”

Varric sighed. “Let’s have a look at it.”

“At my shoulder?” she asked. Her sleeves were long and tight. Short of slicing through the fabric, there was no way to show off even a little shoulder without removing the entire shirt. “What are you, crazy? I’m not taking my shirt off in this place.”

“Upstairs,” he said. “Come with me.” He used the tone of voice that would brook no argument. It was the same tone that had kept more than a few idiots alive despite their best intentions to exit the world with a bolt through the head. It was also the same tone that had brought more than a few willing women to their knees.

He didn’t expect it to work on Hawke. She typically saw through his bullshit. But this time she was either in enough pain or enough worry that she nodded in silent agreement and rose from the table to follow him up to his suite.

“Close the door, at least,” she said once they had crossed the threshold. “And no jokes, please… about tits or anything else. Honestly this is embarrassing enough without being made fun of.”

Varric watched her with a sudden curiosity. There was a story he liked to tell about a hardened warhorse that had been tricked by its suicidal master to charge headlong into an overwhelming horde of darkspawn. By some miracle of strength and self-preservation, the horse had pitched its foolish rider into the fray and then made its own escape, bounding through rank upon rank of blighted enemy. From that moment onward, in the depths of its broken, horsey heart, it had vowed only hatred for humans.

The story wasn’t necessarily true and Varric didn’t really know any warhorses firsthand, hardened or otherwise. But the important point was that the horse in question grew wild and unpredictable. The stamp of its hooves kept time for the roll of its eyes and the frothing of its mouth. It flinched from its own shadow.

Hawke was acting that way right now, though with a bit less stamping and frothing. It made him wonder who, if anyone, had ridden her badly.

“I would never make fun,” Varric swore, pressing a hand to his heart in a gesture of sincerity.

“Fine,” she said curtly and lifted her shirt in order to pull it off. She may have intended to achieve her desired outcome—shirtlessness—in one quick and fluid move, but it didn’t happen that way at all. Her injured shoulder was stiff and she couldn’t raise her left arm as easily as she had hoped. Hawke got stuck. Her eyes peeked out at Varric from behind the unusual mask of her half-removed shirt and a pair of lanky arms trapped by fabric.

He smiled, struck once again by how endearing Hawke could be in these spontaneous moments of minor disaster. She struggled against her captor, but the shirt would not yield.

“That won’t help,” Varric said as she teetered unsteadily toward him. Minor disaster blossomed into full-fledged catastrophe as Hawke stumbled forward and Varric stepped closer in an attempt to steady her.

At least she didn’t fall. That was the good thing. And though Varric didn’t really think that any part of this equation was bad, the decidedly tricky thing was the manner in which he’d caught her. In retrospect, he wasn’t exactly sure how he’d ended up with one hand gripping her ass in a rather firm hold nor how both of her ample, round, and very pleasant breasts had ended up pressed against his face. His first instinct had been to open his mouth and kiss one of them through the delicate fabric of her smallclothes. It was a good thing he had stifled his first instinct. That would just have been awkward.

If Hawke was blushing, he couldn’t tell, nor did he really care. The only important thing now was to get her seated somewhere safely before any more harm could come to that beleaguered shoulder. Fortunately, upon examination it became clear that her shoulder was only beleaguered by the most painful of large and angry bruises. The rolly parts didn’t seem to have come unhinged and that was really what Varric had been worrying about.

“I can do something for this,” Varric said. “Sit tight.”

He left her sitting in one of the stone chairs that she found so uncomfortable and returned minutes later with a small bowl filled with a mixture of oil and herbs.

“Smells nasty,” he said, “but it helps. Take your smallclothes off.”

“Excuse me?”

“Unless you want them stained with oil,” he added, flicking a finger at the ribbon of fabric that held her left cup in place.

“Fine,” she said and undoing the clasp, she slipped the little straps of the garment from her shoulders and let the whole thing fall into her lap. From that point forward and until she was once again fully dressed, Hawke would meet Varric’s gaze exactly once.

He hadn’t expected her to be so damn shy. He was her friend, after all, not some poor sot trying to put the moves on her. Still, even he had to admit how tempted he was to stare. Shirtless Hawke was lovely. The whole long, lean torso thing was working pretty well for her. And those breasts. Where to even begin? The answer that first came to mind was to hold them, testing their weight in his hands even as he dipped down to suck at the round dark of her nipples. Nice idea. Maybe later.

Or, in fact, never. What was he thinking anyway? This was Hawke, his dear friend Hawke, not some charming little conquest to make a lonely night no less lonely, but at least a bit less solitary. No. Under no circumstances was he allowed to think of her as anything other than a warrior friend with an injured shoulder. This was strictly a matter of business.

With that point settled once and for all, Varric went to work with strong, expert hands, massaging the oil into the soft flesh and lean muscles of Hawke’s upper back and shoulder. Her shoulder was tighter than he had expected. It seemed to be trying its damnedest to hang onto every last ribbon of tension. Relaxing her would not be easy, but at least the challenge was enjoyable.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he said, “and I’ll be more gentle.”

“It does hurt,” she breathed, “but I like it.”

“Do you?” he asked.

“Mmm,” she said. “Don’t ease up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Varric said. Had Hawke been looking at him, she would have seen how the barest hint of a smile deepened into one that held both appreciation and pleasure.

He had almost forgotten this part. That showed what a long time it had been. A massage properly given could induce a trancelike state for giver and recipient alike. Judging by the dreamy quality of Hawke’s voice, she was either entranced already or hovering right at the edge. Varric shut his eyes, relaxing more deeply into the rhythm of each stroke. He had to admit, a good massage was a lot like good sex. There was euphoria to be had in the sensation of skin on skin. And there was always the clear sense of satisfaction in a job well done.

At last, Varric could feel the tension dissolving from her tired muscles. He found a deep knot and rubbed at it, coaxing it firmly until it yielded in a spectacularly satisfying release. At that same moment, something unexpectedly awkward occurred. Hawke drew a quick breath and on her exhale she said Varric’s name. Except she wasn’t so much speaking it as moaning.

The noise wasn’t loud and, as far as moans went, it wasn’t even particularly bawdy. It was just a quiet, sensual sound that told the story of a woman giving in to absolute pleasure. Varric heard it and was immediately torn from his trance. He looked down at Hawke only to see a pair of big, frightened eyes looking back up at him. One of his hands lingered on her shoulder. Hawke shrugged, pulling away from his touch.

“It feels much better now,” she said. “It really does. And I think I should be going. It’s a long walk to Hightown, after all. A lot of stairs. Need to be home before it’s too dark. Can’t have Mother worrying.” Hawke spoke quickly, as if a flurry of words were all that was needed to fill up the space between them with a solid barrier that neither one could cross.

“Okay,” he said mildly. “Get dressed and get out of here. I’ll see you bright and early.”

After she had gone, Varric sat on the chair she had vacated and with a torn scrap of cloth, began to rub the excess oil from his hands. Though he knew better, he couldn’t help but raise one wrist to his nose and take a whiff of it.

Yup. Completely foul. All the best herbs for healing deep bruises were nasty. The next massage would be better. He’d use a decidedly nicer smelling mixture, perhaps the sort that was designed to heighten the senses on a night of seduction.

Oh, yes. Seduction. There really wasn’t much sense in trying to fool himself or pretend otherwise. Varric now knew with unwavering certainty that he wanted more than a healthy shoulder out of her. He wanted that moan again. And again and again. And he didn’t want his fingers on her shoulder to be the cause of it.


	2. Of Spiders

“Varric?” she said, her voice inflected with that same tenacious curiosity that was bound to be the death of her someday.

“Can it wait, Daisy?” he said. “In case you hadn’t noticed…”

Varric grunted with effort as he leapt backwards to dodge his oncoming attacker. He leveled Bianca at the rapidly approaching beast and fired an exploding shot that tore through its head, releasing a burst of orange goo and sending the creature onto its back to twitch and curl in its death throes.

Varric caught his breath. “…Bianca and I are a little busy to be fielding questions.”

“Yes, I do see that we’re fighting,” Merrill said as she roasted three spiders with a blast of lightning. “But I think you ought to know... That very big spider over there? Bigger than all the other very big spiders?”

“What about it?” Varric asked.

“I think it’s trying to… perhaps… make a bunch of little baby spiders… at the moment… with Hawke.”

Varric looked up. He dared to hope that Daisy was joking. But of course not. When had she ever said something truly bizarre in jest?

At the far end of the cave, Hawke and Aveline were battling a spider so pants-shittingly large that Varric almost wished they’d stumbled into a dragon’s nest instead. Aveline’s sword was slick with the spilt guts of half a dozen smaller spiders and she was busily chopping at the monster’s vast, chitinous underbelly. But aside from the occasional twitch of its leg that, when not avoided in time, sent Aveline flying backwards to land with a hard grunt on the cave floor, the spider was largely ignoring her in favor of Hawke.

Hawke, for her part, was simply trying to keep it off of her. And she was clearly failing, because the massive creature had her pinned against the cave wall. It pawed at her with its hairy front legs and pressed its enormous mandibles much closer than Varric thought advisable. Oddly enough, the spider didn’t seem interested in biting, mangling, or even tearing her limbs off in a bold display of spidery dominance. Rather, it was… nuzzling her? Varric hadn’t realized that spiders were capable of nuzzling, let alone imagined that they were much inclined to do so with a human.

It took less than one second for him to decide that the best course of action in this case was actually to run full speed towards—rather than away from—the exceedingly large spider. He knew it was shaping up to be a horrible day when that was the thought of the moment, but there was really nothing else to be done. Last night had left him with the clear realization that, if anyone was going to be rubbing naughty bits with Hawke, it ought to be him. And he was not about to be bested by a giant bug—no matter how big and swollen its nether parts.

Never mind that he was really getting too old for this shit.

He generally considered playing hero to be a damned stupid idea, but at least he knew a few tricks to make the odds of painful death a little less likely. For example, the best tactic for killing a creature of this size was to get just close enough for Bianca to release a rain of bolts upwards, ripping into the enormous abdomen, without getting so close that a wounded, flailing spider might fall on top of him and crush the life out of him. It was a delicate equation.

Varric was almost in range for his shot when something unexpectedly heavy slammed into him from the side and knocked him backwards. He landed on a floor made slippery with spider guts and for one irate moment all he could think of was how much coin he would have to pay to get his coat cleaned properly. No washerwoman with a lick of sense would even touch a job like this for less than five sovereigns.

This blasted mine was simply not worth the trouble. He’d have to have a long, somber chat with Hawke about that whenever they finally dragged their sorry asses back to the surface. But for now, he had other things to consider, the most pressing of which was the fact that a big spider with bright stripes on its belly was hovering directly over him and probably trying to decide whether to poison him now and be done with it, or to toy with him a bit before ripping his head off and feasting on dwarf brains. As far as Varric was concerned, neither prospect sounded particularly appealing.

He scrambled to his feet, dragging Bianca up with him, but the leggy bastard was unrelenting. It jumped forward and reared onto its back legs, but instead of biting, it squirted something at him—something warm, smelly, and decidedly unpleasant. He looked down to see a glistening membrane of spider silk stuck to his shirt and tangled in his chest hair. A second later the spider exploded all over him in a rain of liquid innards as Hawke’s long blade pierced its poisonous belly. Disgusting.

“That’s the last of them, I think,” she said as she yanked her blade from the creature’s ruined body. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Varric said, wiping the slime from his face. “Thanks, Hawke. I think.”

“Oh look, Varric,” said Merrill, pointing to the sticky web on Varric’s chest. “That little stripy one was trying to make baby spiders with you.”

“Excuse me?” he said, glancing down at his chest with a horrified expression. “Daisy, are you saying that this stuff is… full of spider eggs or something?”

“Oh no,” she said with a laugh. “Don’t be silly. Boy spiders don’t have eggs.”

Varric groaned.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a horny bunch of spiders before!” Merrill added gleefully. “At least, not since that time I went walking in the woods with all my pockets full of gossamer elfroot and spiderwort.”

“Gossamer elfroot and spiderwort?” Hawke repeated, casting a suspicious glance at Varric.

“Oh yes,” said Merrill. “Remarkably good for healing bumps and bruises. But the big spiders will try to mate with you something fierce if you smell like it.”

Varric shrugged and glanced up at Hawke. “Learn something new everyday, huh?”

“Huh,” she said, but she was smiling. “I think for all this trouble you owe me a beer.”

“I owe you dinner and a beer,” he said. “How about that?”


	3. Of Soup

On a typical day he would never have offered her dinner. Just the beer. And he would have only offered it with the tacit understanding that she would never actually collect on the debt. That was the way things worked. Sometimes she got him out of a tight spot and he claimed to owe her a pint. Other times he saved her sorry ass with a well-placed bolt and then he crossed one beer off the ledger. The bookkeeping was never done with a great deal of accuracy, but by Varric’s best guess, he owed Hawke about eight pints at present.

She didn’t actually care for the fine beverages served at the Hanged Man. Not that he blamed her—it was vile stuff all around and he himself drank as little of it as dwarvenly possible. And as for the food, well, there wasn’t a whole lot of good to be said about a tepid pot of overcooked rutabagas, seasoned minimally and ladled over greasy chunks of whatever mystery-critter-of-the-moment Edwina had found squeaking in the back storeroom before she’d butchered it in a fit of entrepreneurial zeal. So, in fact, it was more of a favor to Hawke than a detriment that Varric’s offers of the Hanged Man’s finest routinely went unfilled.

But tonight was different. It’s true he was ragged and weary from the day’s fun little excursion to the countryside. And he wasn’t wearing any of his favorite clothes because he’d sent them out to be washed a few dozen times in hopes that would be enough and he wouldn’t have to burn them after all. But he was clean. Two and a half hours of scrubbing and a small of fortune in soap were all it had taken to remove the lingering perfume of gooey innards and the really disturbing crust of spider splooge that was never again to be mentioned.

Oh, yes, he was clean. And if cleanliness really was akin to godliness, then he was all set, because his plan for the evening hadn’t changed.

He was willing to grant that it may not have been the wisest of plans. Putting the moves on one’s best friend rarely ever was. Present circumstances didn’t extenuate much, either. Ever since last night, Hawke had been acting less like his favorite companionable smartass and a whole lot more like a blushing Chantry sister. It was unusual and disconcerting and yes, okay, insanely arousing, but since he had absolutely no idea why she was acting so strangely, it was probably better to rein in the arousal just a bit, at least until he had coaxed a few answers out of her.

The trouble was, he wasn’t really sure what the right questions should be. The few that came to mind didn’t seem expansive enough. _Did you… eat a bad mushroom? Lose a freaky bet to Rivaini? Get possessed by the spirit of awkward puberty? Want to go to bed with me now?_

He went with something safe. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

Hawke narrowed her eyes in an expression that bridged bemused and bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

“This exquisite, high class tavern, of course,” Varric said, his gaze sweeping the room as he cast one hand in a wide flourish to encompass the entire lower level of the Hanged Man. “So different from the hovels we usually frequent. When I buy a lady dinner, you should know I go all out.”

Hawke pulled up a chair and took a seat beside him, all the while shaking her head. “You’re not really going to make me eat here, are you? Is this supposed to be some kind of punishment?”

“Oh, come now, my dear, they say the stew here is delicious…”

“So long as you eat around the meat and the rutabagas, yes, I’ve heard that one a few thousand times already,” she said.

Varric was watching her closely. She sounded almost like her normal self again, but the stilted body language of the previous evening hadn’t gone away and she seemed to be having just as much trouble sustaining eye contact. Something was wrong and, regardless of his newly realized desires, he owed it to her to help if he could. That’s what he did, after all. He helped Hawke.

…

In retrospect, he really should have seen this coming sooner. There were an awful lot of warning signs he hadn’t heeded. The fact that he routinely saved up stories for her appreciation alone was not exactly damning evidence against him. But it did start to look pretty suspicious when combined with a few other things—the way he always looked up hoping to see her whenever the door of the Hanged Man swung open, the way he secretly admired the view whenever he walked behind her for any great distance, and, of course, the fact that he could readily identify his favorite among Hawke’s typical facial expressions.

Maker, was he ever daft for this woman, because he hadn’t even realized he _had_ favorite Hawke facial expressions until just this moment when he decided to ask her an embarrassingly personal question at the same exact instant she took her first bite of the horrible stew he had somehow convinced her she was hungry for after all. It wasn’t really fair of him and his intent was not actually to embarrass her. Rather, he hoped to see the adorable but fleeting panicked look that crossed Hawke’s face whenever she was torn between conflicting urges: in this case, the impulse to speak in her own defense versus the overriding, well-mannered impetus to finish chewing before she did so.

Prolonging the difficulty for Hawke was the fact she had just taken a bite of the meat and the act of chewing it to a state of sufficient tenderness took her about a minute and a half, her expression in the meantime passing twice into the realm of puzzled thoughtfulness and once—right at the end—into marked displeasure. When at last she swallowed, she immediately reached for her mug and drank from it deeply.

“You’re wrong,” she said, setting her mug down on his table with a careless thunk. “On both counts. I am not acting strangely. And I’m not on the—it is _not_ that time of the month. And even if it were… Maker’s breath, you are infuriating sometimes.”

“Careful lest you wound me,” Varric said, pressing one hand to his heart. “I’m a sensitive man.”

“See, there you go again,” Hawke protested. “All smooth and irresistible one minute, then boorish and crass the next. How am I supposed to finish this awful stew when I never know if you’re going to try and make me laugh in the middle of one bite or make me blush in the middle of the next?”

“Irresistible?” Varric said, his curiosity fully piqued. “Do tell.”

But there it was again, the frightened look, shutting down any further line of inquiry. It was the prime example of Hawke acting strangely. And yet she denied it.

Well, that settled it. If questioning her outright wasn’t going to gain him any insights, then his only recourse was to pursue other methods. And if those other methods just happened to further a particular agenda, well, shit, who could blame him?

“How’s the hurt shoulder?” he asked.

“Stiff,” she said. “Not as bad as yesterday, but still sore. Though it’s fine enough it doesn’t need any more of the special herb treatment from you.”

“You know,” he said, “not all herbs attract spiders.”

“Perhaps not,” she said, “but you have no idea which ones do.”

“Duly noted,” he said and tucked into a bite of rutabaga. It was vaguely bitter and he wondered what part of a four-hour simmering process could possibly impart that unfortunate undertone.

“So no herbs this time?” he said after washing away the broth’s sour aftertaste with a swig of ale. “Just a pair of strong dwarven hands to soothe your aching back?”

“Oh,” she said, shyly looking down at her own hands. “I guess that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

And he thought he saw the faintest hint of a blush.

“You don’t even have to take your shirt off this time,” Varric said, then waited until she looked at him again before adding wickedly, “unless you want to.”


	4. Of Seduction

Hawke opened her mouth as if to protest, but before she could say a word, he was there, standing behind her with one hand at the back of her neck and the other sliding firmly beneath one of her shoulder blades. Instead of speaking, her open mouth drew breath in a shuddering gasp and Varric could feel her tremble with a shiver that ran from her neck to the base of her spine.

He fought the keen urge to lean closer and inhale the scent of her hair and skin even as he allowed the roughness of his chin to graze her neck in the lightest of teasing touches. Instead, he smiled, imagining all he might accomplish in one long, industrious night with Hawke. For the moment, at least, every image he could conjure of slick bodies joining was still imbued with the gleam of possibility.

He began at her neck and worked downwards, his strong fingers undeterred by the cloth that separated him from her smooth expanse of skin. He had high hopes that the shirt would come off eventually and these hopes were fed by the way she was already moving to the rhythm of his hands. She anticipated, leaning slightly backwards to meet his touch. Her breath was heavy, each throaty inhale drawn through her still open mouth, each shivering exhale released with an audible sigh. Oh yes, they were off to a very good start.

The knot he had released from her shoulder yesterday evening had returned. That was no great surprise. She had only been hefting a massive sword all day, slicing through spider dens in the morning then fighting off a gang of brigands on the afternoon trek home. She was lucky to have escaped with only renewed soreness. The day’s adventures could easily have torn through a shoulder that hadn’t been properly healed in the first place.

Varric kneaded at the knot, overwhelming it with a sequence of pressure and release until its tightness melted away. Hawke responded admirably with the gentlest of moans. He rewarded her with the long caress of a well-placed upstroke that rose along muscles so eager to be touched. The next thing he knew, Hawke had reached behind her to grab his hand.

“Here,” she said, her voice no more than a breathy whisper. “It’s tight.” She guided his hand to a spot just above her right hipbone.

She was right. Another deep knot was here. Varric went to work, kneading it gently to loosen its edges before he pressed deeper. The fabric of her shirt was in the way this time, so he lifted it up. It gave him such pleasure to feel the warmth of her skin and he was well aware that he wouldn’t want to leave this sensation behind. He could only hope that she too would see the folly of a massage given and received through layers of clothing.

Again, the tension in her body yielded to his touch and, again, the little moan escaped Hawke’s lips. Varric stepped closer, his hands returning to the top of her shoulder as his fingers rolled downward over strong muscles until he reached her upper arm. From a distance her arms were deceptively thin. Up close, they were all lean muscle and compact strength. And every one of these muscles held its own burst of tightness that seemed to be just waiting for Varric and the skilled play of fingers that brought Hawke such relief. Really, now, what _would_ she do without him?

Hawke lifted her head, which had been lolling forward in a pose of utter relaxation thanks to the work he had already done on her neck. She turned to Varric and stared at him. And, damn it all, if her face wasn’t close enough that he could have moved forward half a hand’s-breadth to kiss her lips.

“Varric?” she said.

“Hawke?”

“My legs are as much in need of this as my arms,” she said. “Is that… weird… to ask you?”

He stopped his work in order to think for a moment and choose his words wisely. Based on her recent skittishness, he was pretty sure that the way he handled a delicate question like this one could either scare her off entirely or make his night a whole lot more interesting. Suffice it to say, Varric was hoping for interesting.

“It’s not weird,” he said, his face still kissably close. “It’s a full body massage and that’s… a different beast entirely. I’d need you to lie down for it. And probably get undressed. Those trousers are too thick to work through comfortably.”

“It’s not asking too much?” she said. “I don’t think I realized how sore I am.”

“I’m willing, Hawke,” he said, stifling a chuckle, because, Andraste’s freckled tits, wasn’t that just the understatement of the night? “So long as you’re comfortable.”

“So…” she said, her gaze dropping down and away from him. “Do I just…”

“Take off your trousers and go lie down on the bed,” he said. His voice was measured and affable, so carefully schooled that it revealed not one hint of the desire he felt so urgently. “Just go ahead and pitch all the pillows overboard if you need the space. I’ll join you in a minute or two.”

She looked at him again and in her eyes Varric could read what he thought to be relief and thanks mixed with a lingering uncertainty. Was he entirely mistaken or did he also see something akin to arousal?

Hawke rose from her seat at the table and passed beyond his view. He could her hear beyond the partition unbuckling her trousers and kicking off her shoes as she shuffled around his wide bed. Varric removed his boots then went to the door to make sure that, yes, it really was locked. He paused there for a moment, allowing her time to get settled.

There was one thing he knew with absolute certainty. If Hawke wanted anything more than a massage tonight, she would have to ask him for it. He could only bring her along so far before it all came down to her choosing either to leave—with her status as his friend remaining unaltered—or to stay and join her body to his as they figured out an altogether different sort of closeness that he just knew would be big enough to still encompass friendship while making space for a few things more. He wanted more. And he really hoped he wasn’t fooling himself in thinking that so did she.

Certain he had waited long enough, he went to the bed expecting to see a pair of long bare legs awaiting his attention while the rest of her body remained clothed in shirt and smallclothes. But he was wrong and quite surprised to see that she’d stripped completely. Not one piece of clothing was left and at last he could see every curve of her naked backside. A very good surprise indeed.

Her reward for full nakedness was renewed attention to her back and shoulders before he moved downward to attend to the powerful muscles of her legs. He knelt beside her on the bed, not daring to straddle her hips—at least not yet—lest he risk revealing the length to which his own arousal was growing. So to speak.

Hawke’s legs were beautiful, to look at and to touch, but they were also difficult. Like all human legs, they were just way too long for their own good. And these legs in particular were comprised entirely of thick, tight muscles that seemed only to relax with the deepest, hardest pressure he could bring to bear. Fingers alone were insufficient and he soon found himself straining into her with the heel of his hand.

Still, the difficulty was worth the chance to get so well acquainted with such intimate parts of her body as her sweet, nicely-rounded ass and the delicate softness of her inner thighs right where they came into contact with a certain other part of her that would remain off limits and untouched, at least until she gave him leave to do otherwise.

“Okay,” he said at last. “That’s all there is. You’re done.”

“No,” she whispered. Her reply came quickly and she made no effort to hide the disappointment from her voice.

It brought him a surge of joy to hear it.

“I’m afraid you’ve reached the limits of what a friendly massage has to offer,” Varric said.

Hawke said nothing, but neither did she move.

He supposed there really wasn’t any good reason not to push a little. “There is more I could do for you,” he said. “But it would go way beyond the limits of a friendly massage. And you’d have to me ask nicely.”

“Varric?” Hawke raised herself up on one elbow, affording him a full view of her breasts, which she made no move to cover. “Are you offering to… to…”

“Yes,” he said in the same steady and comforting tone of voice he had used earlier when directing her to the bed. “I’m offering to fuck you, Hawke. We’ve always been honest with each other and, honestly, you’re a good friend, a valuable partner, and though you’ll never compare to the finest crossbow in Kirkwall, it doesn’t matter. I’d still like… more.”

“Oh… Maker,” she said, looking away from him, shaking her head. “Anders…”

Varric could feel his blood running cold. That was not the name he’d been hoping hear. Not at all. He looked away, shutting his eyes against his own foolishness…

But Hawke wasn’t finished. Her words tumbled out in wild abandon. “Anders was right. I thought he was crazy for even suggesting it. I yelled at him. I said he was no friend of mine unless he took it back. He wouldn’t. Varric, he wouldn’t. So I stormed off without even letting him heal my shoulder. I came here to see you to try and prove how full of shit he was. To prove that you’re nothing more than my dearest friend. But instead it all got really confusing. And I had my shirt off… and you were touching me… and I just wanted… I wanted…”

“You wanted to go,” he said.

Hawke gave a quick laugh and shook her head. “I wanted to lie down, spread myself open, and take whatever you had to give me.”

Varric raised an eyebrow. “You… ran away.”

“I’m here now,” she said.

“Naked in my bed,” he said, allowing his gaze to trace the line of her body. Some of the warmth was already surging back through him.

“Right, so… will you continue my massage past friendliness?” she said, asking very nicely indeed. Hawke was smiling at him now and seemingly gone was any trace of the shy uncertainty he had so easily come to accept as an elemental part of this equation. “Because I do have another tight spot for you.”


	5. Of Sex

There were plenty of other times in which Hawke had scared the living shit out of him. The majority of these had involved a sharp blade—hers or someone else’s—and Hawke bleeding profusely because of it. Of the remaining non-blade-related incidents, most had involved Hawke being hit with dangerous assorted battlefield projectiles: arrows, bolts—in both varieties, of lightning and fired from crossbows—and a fun miscellany of mage-generated others. On rare occasion, the scaring shitless was caused by Hawke getting bloody wasted and tripping inelegantly over her own feet before taking a sudden, unplanned face-dive into heavy barroom furniture.

So, yes, the fear of Hawke dying was usually what stopped his heart cold. Said heart typically resumed its regularly scheduled functions as soon as he had procured a potion, friendly mage, or glass of cold water to splash in Hawke’s face and ascertain that, yes, in fact, her body was still responding to stimuli—rather angrily if the glass of water was involved—and she was therefore most likely still alive.

The most recent and only just now abating heart-wrenching, scared shitless feeling was in a category all its own. To be honest, he was more than a little surprised at how crushed he’d been to think he was about to be rejected by Hawke, his friend and a woman he hadn’t even thought he’d wanted that way until exactly one day ago. It was a sure sign of one thing: he was already emotionally compromised. Severely, even. And that was something he hadn’t let happen in a really, really long time.

Well, shit. This was certainly going to be interesting.

Of course, the other, but far less likely possibility was that he hadn’t actually been scared shitless at all, just shocked by what he thought was about to happen to him—namely, rejection by a woman, which was something he could honestly say he’d never experienced before. Of course, he didn’t ever _actually_ say it. Not out loud. Not to other people. Because it was sort of a shitty, smarmy thing to say. And that was exactly the kind of thing he liked to hold onto and save for the really special occasions.

But no sense wasting time pondering. Not when he had a naked woman in his bed, a woman who most certainly had not rejected him. Unless, of course, rejection was a lot sweeter than what he’d always heard. If it involved the naked woman carefully and playfully undressing _him_ so that he could have access to all the necessary “tools of the trade” before he continued her massage, well, then he supposed he was in the process of being rejected pretty damn hard.

Hawke was tugging gently at his shirt, lifting and pulling until more and more of his skin was exposed. As soon as she’d made the shirt disappear—neat trick for a warrior—her hands were everywhere, her fingers rolling firmly over muscle in fierce imitation of the massage he was still supposed to be giving her. Where her fingers had gone, her lips followed and she pressed a string of soft, sucking kisses from the palm of his hand up the length of his arm and across one shoulder before she stopped to plant a last, more urgent kiss against his neck.

It was good enough to make him shiver. And, Maker knew, he was hard enough already, a condition which was only being helped along by Hawke’s insistent one-handed fumbling at his belt buckle. Easiest option was just to give in, press her beneath him, and show her exactly how far beyond friendship he was going to take her now. But no. Not yet. Her timidity had given way to confidence a little too quickly, perhaps.

Varric pulled back from her increasingly passionate kiss and slid his hand along her jaw. “Look at me,” he said.

Hawke obeyed and for a long moment he searched her face for any sign of lingering doubt. But she was smiling at him like a love-struck idiot and any fear left in her wide eyes had already been extinguished in a flood of longing. Good thing, too. Fervent desire for her notwithstanding, he would still put a stop to this if at any time he thought she wasn’t wholly certain.

Let no one ever say he complicated a perfectly good friendship lightly.

“Good,” he said, finally satisfied that, yes, Hawke was unwavering, a woman who knew what she wanted. And because what she wanted was _him_ , Varric was quite willing to reward her with a much better kiss than the slightly ticklish one her lips had just been sharing with the patch of now wet skin beneath his left ear. He tilted his head, smiled ever so slightly, and leaned in for a kiss that began with the softest, most tantalizing brush of his lips against hers.

In that first instant of contact, he remembered something—an insignificant and, later, potentially traitorous little thought—that he’d buried years ago, because Hawke had become his partner and then his friend. But there it was again, the memory of a warm late afternoon in the hexes of Lowtown, months before his formal introduction to Hawke in the Hightown square. He’d been worn out from a day of boots pounding stone as he traversed the city to call on contact after contact in a desperate bid to mend a deal that Bartrand had broken in a fit of drunk and stupid. The alienage had been Varric’s last stop, again to no avail, and he was righteously pissed off, enough to catch himself thinking that yes, today might be an awfully nice day to murder his older brother.

And then he heard the sound of humming and looked up. It was so soon after her arrival in Kirkwall that he’d never even heard the name Hawke before, but he knew a beautiful sight when he saw one. She was sitting on the stairway just beyond her uncle’s door with a sword in one hand, whetstone in the other, and a polishing stone waiting patiently at her feet. She was all alone, but went about her work happily, all the while humming the cheerfully infectious melody of a popular children’s song about a little boy tricked by a swamp witch, turned into a rabbit, then boiled alive in a stew. She hit all the notes just right.

She never even saw him walk by, but Varric suddenly found himself thinking that if he were ever to end up with a human woman for anything more than a quick tumble, he’d want one just like her: pretty face, nice figure, adventurous, capable, not too broody, able to carry a tune, and judging by her choice of songs, sick sense of humor. And, somehow, his day was a lot less shitty after that. He arrived at the Hanged Man and the right contact was waiting for him. The broken deal was patched and Bartrand got to live through the night. Of course Hawke hadn’t been the cause of Varric’s good fortune, but her appearance had marked a turning point. And for a short while after that, more than a few of his stories had featured desperate war heroes vying for the love of beautiful women who sat on doorsteps singing gruesome songs of death and dismemberment.

So there it was. Even before he’d known her, he’d wanted her. And though he’d always done his best to step out of its way just before it caught him, the attraction to Hawke had always been there, as kicked and neglected as a templar’s ill-begotten love-child and just as deliberately ignored. The kiss he gave her now—tentative for all of three seconds before it escalated into mutually unabashed and open-mouthed want—was the fulfillment of a lot more than one day’s worth of longing. A starving little part of him had been waiting years for this.

It was a good kiss, made better by the fact that each of his hands had somehow found its way to a corresponding one of Hawke’s breasts, which he handled with just the right ratio of reverent caress to vigorously lustful grab. Hawke was ever so kind as to adjust her position, turning towards him and granting him better access. Varric could tell by her sequence of throaty moans, which rose to vibrate across his lips as he kissed her, that Hawke liked it most when he tugged and squeezed at the hard little beads of her nipples—a good point to remember for future lovemaking and one he’d have to test her on later to see how hard she could bear it.

He always had fun learning these little quirks about a new lover, and, somehow, the learning process was even more appealing than usual given the fact that this new lover was Hawke. He wanted to know everything about her all at once: What were her fantasies? Did she want any of them indulged? Where (else besides her mouth) did she most like to be kissed? How hard and how gently did she like to be fucked? What was the best rhythm of touch to use on her clit, the best angle to penetrate her and make her come? Fascinating how the same curiosity made for excellence in both storytelling and sex. Definitely something to think about… later.

For now, he was simply overwhelmed with delight at the realization that the toughest of warriors was also incredibly soft and feminine. And she made such good little sounds. So far, no complaints. Not a one. Everything about this was absolutely right. And though he didn’t want the kiss to end anytime soon, he did have a plan for moving things forward. Varric rose to his knees, still tasting deeply from Hawke’s sweet, delicious mouth, while she remained seated beside him.

This meant, of course, that he now had the height advantage due to the simple fact that humans were tall precisely because their gangly legs were so long. Torso length and all the rest were roughly equivalent to dwarven standard, a fact that too often went overlooked by the legion of bigots who seemingly had nothing better to do than prattle on about the two most telling reasons—height difference being the first—why human-dwarf intimacy was never intended by the Maker or the Ancestors or the clerics or the templars or whoever-all else was feeling particularly nosy and judgmental at the moment. (Incidentally, the extremely high rate of dwarven-human infertility was cited as the other telling reason, but as far as Varric was concerned, that one was actually more of a boon than anything.)

He used his newly acquired leverage to lean into her, compelling Hawke gently backwards until she lay beneath him. He then took hold of her wrists and, with one hand, pinned them above her head, effectively trapping her. All the while, Varric was also undoing his belt, slipping off his trousers, and never for one instant breaking off this longest and most euphoric of kisses. (He was really starting to wonder if she hadn’t drugged her lips or something.) Hawke seemed to find the whole gymnastic process completely charming—or something like that—because the series of delighted little hums and purrs that she’d been making throughout the act of kissing him were now sounding even more delighted and were being issued with increasing frequency. And this was all very good, but Varric was nothing if not a man of his word—more or less—and he still had a matter of unfinished business to attend to.

He broke off the kiss.

“I’m going to free your hands, Hawke,” he said, poised above her and looking directly into her eyes, “but you’re not allowed to move. I need to finish this massage and I can’t have you making things difficult.”

That won him a big smile, one that was both aroused and compliant enough to suggest that his best guess had indeed been right. Few people in Kirkwall would ever have dared to start issuing commands to Hawke. She had a really big sword and she knew how to use it: major deterrent, right there. The friends who knew her well enough to see that she often needed help with the really big decisions also knew that giving firm orders to Hawke was a really stupid way to get results, unless of course the desired result was a mocking reply followed immediately by a clear peal of laughter.

So, there it was. Hawke was the sort of woman who never took orders from anyone. And Varric had been banking on the possibility that she was also the sort of woman who would really get off on being given direct commands in the bedroom. Very nice to see that that was true. Convenient also, because he was just the sort of man who excelled at taking charge of the whole lovemaking experience. So it seemed that, yes, once again and as always, they were going to make a really good team.

“Absolutely no interfering. Is that understood?” he added for emphasis.

“Understood,” Hawke echoed in the same breathy whisper she’d been using on him all evening as if someone had told her there was magic in it—enough to allow even the most painfully awkward of human females to ensnare her very own horny, beardless dwarf.

And perhaps there was some magic, because without a second thought, Varric reacted. He’d planned to draw this out, to make the longing for her build nearly to the point of bursting before at last sinking into her and fucking her until she moaned his name over and over again in her pleasure. He’d planned to place the tip of his cock right at her entrance and reflect for a moment on how one gentle thrust was all it would take to change, well, if not actually _everything_ then at least the answer to the question, “ _Have you ever had a piece of that?_ ”—a question which, oddly enough, inebriated human men in their desperate and invariably unsuccessful attempts to get into Hawke’s pants always seemed compelled to ask him.

He’d planned to at least finish her massage.

But instead, without a word of notice to Hawke or even to himself, he’d released her hands, adjusted his position relative to her hips, and filled her with one smooth, hard thrust. She was so unbelievably wet that one fucking thrust was all it took.

And this was usually the point where he thought to himself, _Score!_ or _Nicely done, big guy_ , or maybe even _How’s that for size, you skeptical little minx?_ And though he did think the first and second of those things, that wasn’t the half of it. The rest of what went through his head was more like a whirlwind of thought and feeling that came and went and left him, in its wake, suffused with a tender sort of warmth that felt really fucking fantastic. The only thought that distilled clearly enough from all of it was a question. _Why didn’t we ever try this sooner?_

What he said out loud was, “Marian.” And when he realized she was looking at him, he had the presence of mind to add, “Hey there.”

“Hi,” she said, “Varric,” as if to confirm that, yes, he was quite right, greetings were definitely in order.

Possibly even renewed introductions, now that he thought about it.

For an instant, he wondered if he had ever told Hawke how beautiful she was. But of course he had, and with regular persistence, though the sincerity of that revelation was perpetually undercut by the manner of its delivery—namely, enslaved to some bigger piece of jesting. No wonder she’d been so timid, so afraid he’d laugh at her. Every flirtatious thing he’d ever said to her before tonight was couched in laughter, layer after protective layer of it.

Good thing he’d had the sense to tell her in no uncertain terms he’d wanted this massage to end in vigorous rutting. She would probably never have admitted her own desires otherwise. Not that hers weren’t strong enough. Far from it. He could read their strength in the way her gaze rolled across his face and traveled downward—moving appreciatively over the thick muscles of his chest and stomach—until her focus came to rest between both of their thighs. That was still not enough for her and soon Hawke was craning her neck forward to gain a better view.

“You like to watch, don’t you?” he asked, his voice inflected with devious curiosity. When she glanced upward to meet his steady gaze, she blushed a little, but, undeterred, nodded her assent. Varric flashed her the most self-congratulatory smirk in his arsenal and said, “Then watch this.”

With a graceful turn of each wrist, he presented his hands, front and back, as if for her inspection before he placed them firmly on the backs of her thighs, not far below her bent knees. Slowly, he pressed her thighs down towards her, shifting the position of her hips and ass, which rolled upwards enough to give Hawke a nearly unimpeded view of all the action—action that began with Varric moving his hips in steady rhythm, gradually gaining both speed and force.

Following Hawke’s lead, he indulged his urge to watch the sex act that grew between them with fluid ease. Each partial withdrawal from her body was followed swiftly by a renewed entry. The repetition held a meditative quality and, for a minute, Varric was transfixed, all his attention captured by the delicate folds of her skin that moved with him, yielding as he thrust inwards, rising around him ever so slightly as he pulled back—as if her body were reluctant to let him go.

He forced his attention back to Hawke’s face. Her wide-eyed look of wonder and ragged-breathed smile were enough to tell him that she, too, was lost in a world of her own pleasure. Determined to intensify the experience for her, he reached down to rub the soft ridge of her clit with practiced fingers. A troubled look crossed her face. Not so good. But fortunately for her, Varric did not suffer the seductive arrogance that led many a lesser man astray, convincing him he could do no wrong in the bedroom.

“So show me the right way,” he said, raising an eyebrow in subtle challenge.

“Like this,” she breathed, moving his fingers to the side, away from the sensitive nub. She guided him in a percussive sequence that he continued easily after her hand had gone. That much accomplished, she adjusted her position—planting her feet, lifting her hips—and with a gentle rocking motion, she slid back then forward, driving herself against him even as he continued to fuck her. Varric knew she was close when she clenched around him impossibly tighter, her body transformed into the sweetest of vices.

She was quiet—the only sound to indicate the pleasure that broke across her in waves was a gasping, trembling intake of air. Her eyes rolled and she fought to regain control, bringing her focus back to him. No moan of his name, not even a whisper, but he didn’t care anymore. Just having brought her here was enough—surely, would always be enough.

He rode through it, noting the way her muscles relaxed, loosening around him as her pleasure subsided. They would clench again soon. No reason why he couldn’t offer her a second peak before at last he allowed his own climax, pounding her harder than she may have imagined possible before spilling into her as deeply as instinct drove him.

At the moment of his release, Hawke shut her eyes, her smile broadening as if she were lifting her face to sunlight and reveling in its warmth. Glistening with sweat, heart racing, catching his breath, and softening inside her, Varric rested. Fading away from him was the lust to fill her and returning was a much saner man who managed to spare one rueful glance at his beloved crossbow before settling beside his more-than best friend, pulling her close, and dropping immediately into the void of dreamless sleep against the welcome curve of her body.


	6. Of Sleep Interrupted

Hawke was either dreaming or lost in whatever hard depths of sleep humans reached just before they wandered into the Fade. Whichever it was, the demonically loud knocking at the door was not enough to jolt her awake. The same could not be said for Varric, who had woken, completely disoriented, in his own bed. For a second he was nonplussed to see that he was not alone, but then the memory of Hawke’s naked embrace flooded back to him, and his confusion was replaced with a grin of pure satisfaction.

He had to grope for a minute in the early morning darkness before locating his shirt and trousers. They lay crumpled on the floor after having been so carelessly discarded in last night’s haste to get out of his clothing and _into_ Hawke—an objective he’d accomplished remarkably well. That thought came with another satisfied grin.

He dressed quickly, eyeing the door with disdain. The pounding had not ceased, rather, amplified and gained itself a muffled chorus of accompanying voices. Surely, it was too early for social calls. He wasn’t sure exactly how early it was, but the darkness was a fairly decent indicator that any wise visitors were still tucked in their beds sleeping. Only the very worst of fools came calling at this hour.

Three fools to be precise and each of them bearing an object. The first fool—standing right in front of him—was Isabela, puzzling over a hairpin that she was twisting into shape to serve as a crude lock pick. Upon hearing the door creak open, she glanced up from her work.

“You see, I told you. Works like a charm,” she said and tossed the hairpin aside with a careless flick of her wrist.

“You didn’t actually pick the lock, you know,” Anders said with a long-suffering sigh. He held a bottle filled nearly to its stopper with a glossy black liquid that looked more like ink than any potion Varric had ever seen.

Merrill pushed past both of them and flung herself at Varric, engulfing him in a brief, but surprisingly crushing hug. Her slender arm was stronger than he ever would have imagined—arm, not arms, because she only hugged him with the one. The other was too busy clutching a massive tome that jabbed uncomfortably at Varric’s chest until she released him from the impromptu embrace.

“Oh, thank the Creators you’re still alive,” she said and, slipping past him into the suite, made a beeline for his table where she dropped her book with a heavy thud.

“Daisy,” he said warily, “why wouldn’t I be?”

“Be what?” she asked.

“Alive,” he said, glancing sternly over his shoulder even as he rested his hand firmly against the doorframe in an attempt to prevent any further unauthorized entry.

“Oh, don’t get her started,” said Isabela, nudging his arm aside and following Merrill into the room.

“Yes,” said Anders, breezing past him on Isabela’s heels, “if I hear her say the words ‘venomous ejaculate’ one more time, I swear… I may just turn to blood magic myself in effort to shut her up.”

“Wait—venomous… what?” Varric said, still not sure he was awake enough to be having conversations—at least not the out loud sort.

“Ejaculate,” said Merrill, enunciating clearly and slowly as if for Varric’s benefit. “Varric, you remember the spider that loved you up at the Bone Pit.”

“I…” he said, for once completely at a loss for words.

“Oh, you wicked man,” said Isabela, her smile flickering in firelight that grew as Anders knelt at the brazier, coaxing life into dying flame.

Merrill continued. “I knew the markings were all wrong.” She flipped through the pages of her book until she came to one bearing the picture of a large striped spider. “I’ve been searching my library for hours and finally found it. Here.” She pointed to the page.

“Let’s be clear,” Varric said, finding his voice again. “There was no _ejaculate_. End of story.” Obviously, someone had forgotten that the spider incident was Never Again to be Mentioned. That someone was not Varric.

“Yes, there was,” said Merrill. “It was stuck in your chest hair.”

Anders giggled. _Giggled_. Maker’s mercy, this was not good.

“It may have absorbed right through your skin,” Merrill added. “We need to watch you for one full day. No more sleeping and if you start to exhibit any of the symptoms, you have to drink every last drop of that potion Anders made for you.”

“What—”

“Do yourself a favor and don’t ask what’s in the potion,” Anders said.

“—symptoms?” Varric finished, raising an eyebrow and casting a look of warning at Anders, who had now lit all three lamps at Varric’s table and was eyeing the wall sconces with determination.

“Oh, yes, Merrill, do read him the symptoms,” Isabela said. Then, turning back to Varric, she added, “They’re all priceless, but the last few are my absolute favorites.”

“Rapidly pounding heartbeat,” Merrill began solemnly, reading from her tome, “profuse sweating, wooziness, odor of onions, tingling in the extremities, braying or other beastly intonations, and engorgement of male genitalia.”

Isabela dissolved into laughter.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Varric said, sliding the book from Merrill to read with his own eyes. He scanned the list. “…’the shit’s a beastly intonation? _Braying?_ ”

“Engorgement,” said Isabela.

“Varric?”

It was the dreamy voice of a woman torn from sleep, a voice not yet entirely recognizable as Hawke’s. And all at once the three companions around his table fell silent: Isabela ceased playing with the bottle of potion, which she had been rolling from side to side across the table watching the dark liquid slosh; Anders set aside the poker, abandoning his task of relighting the wall brazier; and Merrill bit her lip and huddled tight into herself in an attempt to stop fidgeting in her chair. Every eye was trained on Varric, who simply smiled.

“What’s this?” Isabela asked, breaking the silence. “Another spider? Brought one home with you? Trained it to cry your name?”

“Stay right here,” Varric said, pointing to the table. “All of you. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He half-expected them to follow anyway, but they didn’t, and he could already hear their speculative whispers blooming as he stepped into the lingering darkness of the bedroom.

“There you are,” Hawke whispered as she writhed sleepily beneath the covers. “Come back to bed.”

“Mmm,” he said. “There’s nothing I’d like more.” He sat at the edge of the bed and bent down, pressing a kiss to her forehead even as he slipped one hand beneath the sheets to better appreciate the full curve of her breast.

“Come back to bed and fuck me,” Hawke said, arching her back. The breast he held rose to press against his hand. Varric squeezed, causing an enticing little sigh to issue from Hawke’s lips.

“Unfortunately, we have visitors,” he said. “So unless you’d like an audience for that, I think we’d better scare them away first.”

Hawke’s eyes shot wide open and her heart may very well have skipped a beat. Had Varric been holding her left breast, he may have been able to say for sure.

“Who?”

“Just friends,” he said. “Daisy. Rivaini. And, uh… Blondie.”

“Crap,” she said.

“Oh, come on. Bet he’s dying to say ‘I told you so.’ You can at least give him the satisfaction.”

“Varric,” she said. “They’ll all tease me for this. Can’t I just hide in here?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, a hint of anger and sadness dancing at the edge of inflection. “You hide and I’ll lie to them. Maybe then they’ll go way. And we can pretend this whole misunderstanding never happened. How’s that, Hawke?”

“Hey,” she said. “Stop that. _This_ is not a misunderstanding.” She pulled him towards her, engaging his lips in a kiss that was fierce and passionate and which Varric returned for half a minute before gently pulling away.

“Easy there, morning breath,” he whispered, smiling down at her in the brightening shadows of a new day that crept in through high windows.

“All right,” she said, reaching up and running her fingers along the stubble of his jaw and chin. “Let’s scare them away then. Where are my clothes?”

“Exactly where you left them last night in your haste to undress for me,” he said. “Strewn about my floor.” Varric began collecting them for her then waited in the doorway to watch as Hawke dressed. He smiled at the sight of soft fabric sliding across her curves. He was already beginning to imagine all the ways he would remove those clothes again later. Oh yes, this was shaping up to be a very good day—provided, of course, he didn’t die of spider poisoning first.

“You know,” he said once Hawke was fully clothed and ducking her head shyly as if reluctant to leave his bedroom and face her friends, “being teased isn’t always so bad. Let’s just try to enjoy this, shall we?” And with that he turned and headed for the table where three friends waited eagerly for some new evidence to fuel their gossip.

Merrill sat at one of his chairs and flipped through the pages of her book while Anders stood behind her, his lips moving silently as he read over her shoulder. Isabela had plopped her pantsless ass directly onto his table—he made a mental note to have it washed as soon as possible—and she was peering into the bottle of black liquid, which she had uncorked and which was now fizzing ominously as if in malice for having been disturbed. All three looked up when Varric returned. When Hawke appeared a few short steps behind him, jaws dropped and eyes widened—at least, the human ones did. Merrill simply cocked her head and smiled brightly.

“Fancy seeing you here, Hawke,” she said. “You’re certainly up early. Oh, wait, did you… figure it out, too? And did you bring a potion?”

“What—” Hawke began.

But Isabela interrupted. “Oh, Hawke, it is a delight to see you here.” She flashed her most wicked and sensual of smiles. “All rumpled and mussed first thing in the morning. You must have had a hard night. And you have no idea how much coin I’ve just won.”

“You were betting that I’d…” Hawke began, a blush rising to her cheeks.

“But how ever did you find all the ingredients?” Merrill asked, completely oblivious to Isabela’s line of conversation. “Anders checked the clinic’s whole inventory and he still couldn’t find any powdered nug dung. We had to stop and buy some from Tomwise on the way here.”

“Ingredients?” Hawke asked, shifting her attention to Merrill. She was growing more and more completely puzzled with every word that bounced off Merrill’s tongue.

Isabela nudged Anders. “I think Fenris owes you a couple of sovereigns, too, doesn’t he?”

“It made me so sad to mash up the butterfly wings,” Merrill added. “I’ve always wondered whose horrific job _that_ is, pulling the wings off unsuspecting butterflies. Have you ever killed a butterfly, Hawke?”

“Butterfly?” Hawke echoed. She glanced pathetically at Varric as if in search of assistance.

But Varric was smiling as he listened to the mingling threads of conversation. Right at the center of everything was the fact that Hawke was here, roused from his bed. And three of his friends were here, too, as bumbling witnesses to the fact that his impressive sexuality had finally gotten the better of Hawke. If not cause for celebration, it was at least reason enough to be feeling immensely pleased with himself— which of course, he was.

“No,” said Anders to Isabela. “I never placed a bet with Fenris. In fact, I think the only thing I’m owed at the moment is one massive apology and a bit of ass kissing.” He glared at Hawke from across the table.

“Well, you are an ass,” Isabela said, “but definitely not the one that Hawke’s sweet lips have been kissing.”

“What’s really intriguing,” Merrill said, “is that eggs and semen of the common brown spider are both part of the antidote. Wait… kissing? Am I… missing something important?”

Anders sighed and looked down at Merrill. “Hawke’s not here because she read up on poison spiders or disgusting antidotes. She’s here because she spent the night with Varric.”

“Hold on a minute… antidote? For what?” Hawke asked.

“Engorgement of the male genitalia, apparently,” said Isabela.

“Here,” said Merrill, sliding the book towards Hawke, “read the rest of the symptoms. Anders, when you say ‘spent the night with’ do you mean…”

“Yes,” said Hawke, flustered, blushing, and nearly shouting in answer to Merrill’s question. “All right? Yes. I fucked Varric. And it was fantastic and I’m planning to do it again. Anders, I’m sorry, you were right and I’m an idiot. Please accept my apology.”

“Accepted,” said Anders without a moment’s hesitation.

“Hawke, when you say ‘I’m planning to do it again,’ any idea how many more times, exactly?” Isabela asked. When Hawke gave her a sharp look, Isabela shrugged defensively. “What? More than a dozen times and it affects my winnings from Donnic.”

“Oh,” said Merrill, pulling the book back towards her and considering the listed symptoms once again. “In that case I guess getting woozy, smelling like onions, and braying are the only symptoms we should really be worrying about—unless dwarves typically do that during sex. I don’t know, Hawke, do they?”

Hawke turned to Varric, who was now leaning against the wall, smiling broadly as he listened to the entire ridiculous conversation.

“Please make it stop,” she said.

“Anything for my lady,” Varric said in the most suave and princely of drawls. He smiled up at her and, turning his attention to the rest of the group, began to issue instructions. “Blondie, go bring a couple of chairs up from the bar. If you see Edwina, charge five plates of breakfast to my tab. Daisy, put the book away and, Rivaini, don’t break the bottle of potion. I doubt I’m poisoned, but hey, just in case.”

When Anders returned with chairs and a report that food had indeed been ordered, Varric added, “Settle in, folks, we’ve got six hours of card games ahead of us. After that, one full day is up since the spider incident and then I’m kicking three of you out and locking the door behind you.” For Hawke’s ears alone, he added, “I’ve still got a massage to finish, after all.”

“I doubt you’ll ever work out all my kinks,” Hawke whispered to him when the cards had been dealt and the first round of Wicked Grace begun.

“Let’s hope not, babe,” he said. “Let’s hope not.”


End file.
